


the love i meant to say

by orphan_account



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Drug abuse and addiction, Drugs, M/M, Major spoilers for season two of SMASH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Major spoilers for season two of SMASH. Viewer discretion is advised - please read the tags for additional content warnings and triggers within this fic.</p><p>"The Love I Meant to Say" was literally written for Kyle by Jimmy and nothing that you ever say or do is going to convince me otherwise. Death fic, very bad, extremely choppy, but I had to get this out anyway. </p><p>I feel like Ao3 has a personal vendetta against me having a nice time trying to format my work oh my gOD</p>
    </blockquote>





	the love i meant to say

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for season two of SMASH. Viewer discretion is advised - please read the tags for additional content warnings and triggers within this fic.
> 
> "The Love I Meant to Say" was literally written for Kyle by Jimmy and nothing that you ever say or do is going to convince me otherwise. Death fic, very bad, extremely choppy, but I had to get this out anyway. 
> 
> I feel like Ao3 has a personal vendetta against me having a nice time trying to format my work oh my gOD

* * *

__

_Over, I can't believe it's over_

 

Jimmy runs.

He runs everywhere until he can’t see from the tears in his eyes and the weight on his chest. He stops suddenly, clutching his sides; arms all crossed over his ribs, because maybe, maybe, maybe, _maybe_ everybody just hates him and think that this joke is funny.

Somewhere deep down under all the hope though, Jimmy knows that it’s real – it’s _all_ fucking real and he can’t do anything about it even though it’s all his fault.

He cries at some park near Kyle’s apartment, his head hanging because his head doesn’t know what to do anymore. He catches his breath, casting his gaze up to the stars above him, wishing, hoping, _praying_ that Kyle isn’t up there already. That he’s just at MTW and waiting backstage. Oh god, he begs.

The wind, then, picks up a little, clinking the zippers of Jimmy’s jacket together.

A breeze comes up and cradles his head gently, swirling around his arms, and wrapping itself around his chest. It knows every single crevice of his body that nobody should know, the way he likes to be hugged, or the way that he hates whenever there’s something on the back of his neck, or the way that it knocks his shirt away from him just the way that Kyle used to.

“I’m so sorry,” Jimmy whispers, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry, Kyle. I really am.”

The wind gets stronger, pushing Jimmy’s hair around, and getting it caught in his tears.

“So please. _Please_ just come back to me.”

And the breeze leaves just as quickly as it comes. Jimmy collapses onto all fours, tears glittering in the darkness of street lamps and building lights.

 

_I can't believe the love I've left_

Jimmy’s dead.

Or he’s dying. Slowly. Dying slowly on the inside with Kyle’s tooth-rottening sweetness by his side.

He shows up to rehearsal blankly. He sings his songs with perfect emotion and a perfect expression, but he never really gets into it anymore. He does his blocking, he dances – or the little bits that he tries – and he’s hitting everything, but it seems the more he does it, the more that Derek tends to yell at him.

The more he misses Kyle.

 

_To show some other day_

Jimmy has to plan his fucking funeral while rehearsing for a show that’s opening on Broadway in a few weeks, and he can’t do anything but sit around bills and flyers all spread out on ~~their~~ Kyle’s tables, drink from Kyle’s cups, sleep in Kyle’s bed that still somehow smells like him and probably will smell like him forever.

Jimmy cries a lot these days, but whatever. It beats getting drunk and doing something recklessly stupid that Adam will cheer on instead of Kyle pulling him away and back ~~home.~~

He never really appreciated Kyle enough, even though he tried, but now he knows that he never tried hard enough – he can feel it seeping through his bones in spirals of disappointment and thoughts that never leave him be. Not at night. Not when he wakes up. Never.

 

_Listen, I hope that you can hear me_

 

Jimmy goes to Church. He’s never actually been to a church before, but Kyle had mentioned it once before – back when they were all living with Adam and shit. So Jimmy decides that maybe he can go and see if it’s really all that Kyle had chalked it up to be.

He leaves on Sunday, rocking his weight back and forth on his feet as he waits for the door to open. He doesn’t really know what to do, but he follows the kids and the moms inside, and he chooses a seat by himself in the very back. He tries to sit up properly, to look like he’s actually paying attention to what’s being said, but Jimmy knows very little about what’s going on.

He stands to sing though, holding the little book in front of him even though he knows none of the words and the tune, tries to sight-read the sheet music without fucking it up bad. Which is exactly why he barely whispers the words.

See? He was thinking about other people now.

When the congregation settles down again, a man in a black dress shirt and a green scarf-tie thing that hangs limply around his neck stands up, making his way over to the podium. When he starts talking – it’s like Jimmy can feel Kyle smiling right next to him. He reaches over and holds onto his hand.

  


_As I kneel down and pray_

Jimmy passes an old man on his way back from rehearsal; just standing in the doorway of a Church that he can’t pay visits to. It’s all the way in Manhattan, and if he doesn’t have to be at the theatre, he’s definitely not going to be.

The man is sitting on a bench, staring off into the distance of traffic, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Jimmy doesn’t know why he takes a seat next to him.

They don’t talk for a while, and Jimmy knows that they might not ever address each other, but as he’s turning to leave, a steady hand is suddenly on his arm, beckoning him back onto the bench. Jimmy sits down.

“You look lost, kid,” he says, his voice is aged like discarded sandpaper. “Are you lost?”

“I-I, uh, I don’t know?”

The old man smiles kindly. Jimmy can’t look away.  “You look like you need to tell somebody something.”

It’s silent as Jimmy tries to gather his thoughts.

“I do. Um, yeah, I do,” Jimmy says, fingers twitching. “Kind of. I-it’s complicated,” he admits finally.

“That’s okay,” he says, covering Jimmy’s hands with his warmer ones. “The Lord will hear you.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says. “Okay, yeah, okay.”

 

_With the love I meant to say_

 

“…And I _loved_ him.”

 

_Shadows, you took away the shadows_

 

Adam is fucking some girl in the living room, and Jimmy’s not up to hear them and their intoxicated fumbling, so he stumbles into the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against it, the ecstasy finally wearing itself out – leaving a disoriented brain in its wake.

“Fuck,” Jimmy groans, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

You know, it was getting long. Maybe he should cut it?

Jimmy doesn’t know anymore, his mind too distracted as the world spins in perfect rotations around him. The cramped environment certainly doesn’t help any.

He resolves that getting out must be the only way for him to clear his head – which is true – but to a drug addict like Jimmy? That thought was the pinnacle of his existence. He’d actually _thought_ of something cohesive for once, instead of closing his eyes and riding the aftershocks.

Jimmy takes a crack at the window, slipping out of it as gracefully as he can, crashing to the ground after underestimating the height and the distance that the porch covers. He tumbles to the ground head over heels, and then pulls himself shakily to his feet afterward, dusting off his clothes halfheartedly and making his way around Brooklyn.

The night grows darker around him, street lamps flickering on, and his head clears every time a star blinks its way into view, and by the time that he’s Greenpoint-Williamsburg, he’s completely sober. Which kind of sucks, but it kind of doesn’t. At least he can think for himself now, which is nice.

He settles down on the railing overlooking the waterway, his feet dangling into nothing, though the sign practically yells at Jimmy to not sit on the metals bars, but he honestly just doesn’t give a fuck about that. He just stares out into the night sky, the darkness never quite dark enough anymore – the black already polluted by the lights that cast the whole of NYC in neon.

Jimmy’s itching for another line of something, but he doesn’t have anything with him, and – besides- it’s kind of nice outdoors for once? Jimmy stands up, half of his feet already over the ledge that extends past the railing and over the waterfront.

He pushes his body forward over the drop, fingers still wrapped tightly around the metal bars behind him, and he closes his eyes, the rush of air cold and sharp around him, and maybe it gives him more of a thrill than shooting up did. It was close.

“Please tell me that you’re not going to jump,” a timid voice says. Jimmy’s eyes snap open when he nearly looses his grip, his feet sliding an extra inch off the cement.

“Jesus fucking Christ, no,” Jimmy replies. “But I could have, because you scared the living daylights out of me.”

He climbs over the railing and under a street lamp. The stranger steps into the light, the colors warped under the fluorescence of fake daylight, and Jimmy nearly has a heart attack because _holy shit he is really fucking gorgeous._

“Right,” the person says sarcastically, rolling his eyes, and the world around him suddenly lifts in colors, the sky a navy instead of black, his scuffed sneakers less dirty than they were before, the ground shifting to shake off dirt and weeds that grow in tiny cracks – magically becoming something else entirely.

And Jimmy fell right in love.

 

_Before you, life was black and white_

 

Adam punches Jimmy.

Punches his brother until he can’t see straight anymore, the blood and the bruises and the broken skin all too much for him (even though he’s used to it), but he crashes to the ground, not even bothering to try and soften the fall.

He’s going to be in so much pain tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter.            

Jimmy’s sore every morning, and none of his shirts have never been properly clean for more than three days at a time because Adam keeps getting drunk, and getting high, and taking other people’s fucking medications just because it feels good to have everyone at mercy under his feet.

Jimmy is used to _this,_ because _this_ eventually becomes every day. And everyday becomes hell.

 

_Though tonight the room's gone gray_

 

Jimmy can’t see.

He can’t see because he’s crying so fucking much, Ana’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Karen busy in the kitchen making him a cup of tea, and Derek standing sullenly in the corner bickering with Tom, probably talking about “oh look at my lead who’s just fucking everything up in my show, and I regret never even auditioning him, wow, I totally love that now”.

Jimmy had run off; he’d run off and he had been okay, banging through Kyle’s apartment like some kind of monster hurricane, upturning everything, but putting it back just as gently, because Kyle was still alive and he needed this stuff. Plus, none of it is Jimmy’s. Never is, never was. Just because Kyle’s not home and he’s not at rehearsal and he’s not with anybody that Jimmy can think of, doesn’t have to mean that he’s dead.

The police could be wrong. They could always be wrong.

It doesn’t matter though. Julia took him to see the body yesterday – just to confirm if it was really Kyle.

(It was).

But, you know, denial’s good for the soul or something.

The minute they pulled the sheet away from the face was the minute that all the color drained from the world, and Jimmy couldn’t stand anymore, so he plays it off by lowering himself to his knees – almost reverently, to kiss Kyle’s bloodstained forehead. Underneath all the scrapes and the bruises that will never heal, Jimmy still knows that’s _his_ Kyle. His smile, his laugh, his dimples, his birthmarks, his lips, his face, his eyes, his lashes, his hair. 

Jimmy doesn’t question it for one second, doesn’t even hesitate to press his lips to Kyle’s, wishing that they were still warm, but even so – the world explodes into color again, the same colors that came into his life that day Jimmy had been scared shitless by some passerby at Greenpoint-Williamsburg.

He loved Kyle then and he loved him now. He loves him forever.

“I know,” Ana whispers, rubbing a comforting hand up and down his arms. “I know.” She leans her head against his.

Karen comes back with a blanket and a five mugs of tea, pressing one into Jimmy’s hands, and then pulling out a chair to sit beside Ana. Jimmy sips at Earl Grey, and the world is colored exactly how it tastes.

 

_Golden, all the love you gave was golden_

“Jimmy?” Kyle calls. 

“Yeaup?”

“Uhm, do you want to cook something tonight? Our paychecks just came, but I don’t feel like going out right now.”

Jimmy’s head pops into view from where he’s lying with his guitar on the bed, plucking a few notes softly, a surprised look on his face.

“You want to cook?”

“Uh,” Kyle laughs, looking a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I guess?”

“Hell yeah!”

Jimmy pulls off his flannel, and now he’s only in his tank top – which isn’t a rare occurrence in the apartment, already clambering down the makeshift ladder that connects the loft to the only floor of their residence.

“Okay,” Kyle says, amused. He has the fresher contents of their fridge, minus drinks, spread out on their countertop, knives gleaming under the fading sunlight. “What are we making?”

“Uh,” Jimmy says a bit distractedly, “Not sure,” he says, but perks up immediately, “But we’ll figure out when we get there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“That’s right,” Jimmy growls playfully, reappearing in the kitchen to drag Kyle into a kiss.

 

_Gold that I would gladly pay,_

 

Jimmy taps the vegetables into a small bowl.

He cooked tonight. First time without Kyle in the apartment, but he still sets out a second serving in the spot where Kyle usually ~~sat~~ sits, a cup of tap water next to both of their spots.

Jimmy pulls out a chair and takes a seat, sniffing a few times before bending his head down over his food, closing his eyes.

“Hey Kyle,” he says slowly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but, uh, I’ve stopped drinking. And smoking…and I’ve stopped doing drugs. I threw away your last carton of beer last week, and I drink water now. ‘Cause it’s healthy and stuff…and Karen said that it’s good for my skin, so, you know. I believe Karen.”

He pauses.

“I hope you’re happy,” he whispers, “Wherever the hell you are, you sneaky little bastard, and I hope that you can actually eat the food that I make, because I spend a hell of a lot of time and energy on this shit.”

The wind bangs against the windows, and Jimmy doesn’t say anything for a while.

“I miss you,” he says finally. “And my skin doesn’t look better.”

 

_To show the love I meant to say_

 

Jimmy opens his eyes, the other side of the mattress empty except where he’s shoved the blanket in the middle of the night. He reaches a cautious finger in its direction, as if he would upset the deities by moving the lump of fabric, tracing what should be the shape of Kyle’s fingers sprawled against the pillow.

He sighs, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up, wrapping himself in an extra duvet before launching himself into a morning routine and then heading off to rehearsal.

When he gets back, everything is exactly as he left it.

Jimmy can’t really feel his heart anymore.

 

_Oh, music you made me hear, such music_

 

The authorities gave Jimmy Kyle’s stuff, said that his parents didn’t want anything, so it rightfully belongs to Jimmy now. Or something.

There have been a lot of “or something”s going on lately.

Some person behind the mortician’s office gives him Kyle’s bundle of clothes and his iPod that somehow managed to survive and hit and run. Jimmy wishes that it was the iPod that was run over instead of Kyle. People can dream, can’t they?

But there it sits, heavy inside Jimmy’s pocket day in and day out, through rehearsals and performances and everything in between. Some days, though, some days he pulls it out, feeling for every pockmark and every noticeable scratch on the silver case, and some days – when he’s feeling particularly brave – he starts listening to it. To anything that plays, everything on shuffle, and repeat is banned.

When Karen and Derek force Jimmy out of the show for that one night, pushing him into a seat in the audience, he _feels_ Kyle so vibrant and alive through this musical that’s going to play for ages on the Broadway stage, and he can feel Kyle through the omnipresent weight in his pocket, and the music that plays through the orchestra.

It’s as close to Kyle as he’s going to get right now, and it’s pretty damn good.

 

_Without you here to guide me,_

Jimmy doesn’t drink anymore. He wants to though, when the nights get really bad and the days start hurting a lot more than they should.

He just puts on some song that’s on the radio and tries to sing along halfheartedly, cleaning up the apartment over and over and over and over until there’s literally nothing left for him to do anymore. Then he just goes to Ana and Karen’s place to clean a little more.

They joke that his hands are turning red enough from cleaning products that he’ll need foundation to cover it up during performances. Jimmy just laughs at himself, allowing Ana to pull out a tube of her fancy hand lotion (“ _Moisturizer, Jimmy! Moisturizer!”_ ) and slather it on until he feels like he stuck his hand in a stick of melted butter.

He will admit, though, that it does make his skin really soft.

If only Kyle could see him now.

 

_I fear our song will fly away_

 

It doesn’t really matter; because Kyle’s gone and Jimmy didn’t do enough of the things that he’s doing now to actually make a difference to Before.

He tries to make it right by himself. He’s really, really trying, because, now, it seems – it means even more than before, so when Kyle’s nominated for a Tony and when he wins it…Jimmy doesn’t want to fuck this up.

“Kyle,” Jimmy says into the microphone, “This is your big moment, man, and this is so you know that you made it – and you made it big, because dreams really do come true.”

Jimmy holds the award up, shaking it a few times for effect, biting his lips to stop from bursting into tears completely. He looks up to the sky, blinking heavily, and thinking to Kyle (because he knows that he’s listening) “ _We really, really did it.”_

 And they did.

 

_Sorry, that's the word I want to sing to you_

 

Kyle drags him home that night, face bloody from another attempt to retrieve sheet music that he had left at Adam’s house ages ago.

“Kyle let me go!” Jimmy growls, straining against his grip.

“No, Jimmy! You’re going to get yourself _killed_ ,” Kyle says, slapping a hand over Jimmy’s mouth, and definitely not relishing in the way that he tenses under his touch, but stops struggling. It’s another three blocks and a heat run, or heat walk, that they finally return to their apartment, Kyle sitting Jimmy sternly down on the couch before returning with bandages and alcohol wipes.

He sits himself between Jimmy’s legs, scrubbing away at the wounds on his face, expression hard, and his mouth set in a tight line as he concentrates at making Jimmy wince as much as possible. The little shit deserves it.

Kyle turns to leave for the kitchen when Jimmy grabs his arm suddenly, and Kyle stops.

“Kyle,” Jimmy says. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”

“I know,” Kyle responds coldly. “You never mean for anything you do to turn out the way it does, so saying that isn’t going to help you at all.”

Jimmy looks lost for words, and Kyle nearly takes pity on him for a second. _For a second._

“Look,” Jimmy sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I just wanted to do something for you.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything, raising his eyebrows, and directing his gaze to his shoes. “So can I throw this away now?” He waves the little bloodstained towelettes in the air like they’re some kind of toy, and Jimmy is either a puppy for a very young child. Both, too, could work.

Jimmy drops his hand and the words echo in Kyle's head for the rest of the day.

Kyle knows, though, that Jimmy never apologizes properly – he never has and never did. Perhaps, though, Jimmy would now.

If Kyle were still-

 

 _The other word is "_ stay _"_

“It’s too early, Kyle,” Jimmy groans, voice rough with sleep. He throws a hand over his eyes to try and block out the sunlight that lands in his eyes.

“No, it’s not,” Kyle says, “Get out of bed, Jimmy. We have rehearsal.”

“Ugh,” Jimmy throws a pillow in Kyle’s general direction. It’s aimed pretty well, bouncing off of Kyle’s head and mussing up his hair pretty evenly. Kyle throws it back.

“Come on,” he says playfully, walking over and shaking Jimmy awake.

“I dun wanna.”

Kyle pauses. “Free kisses, Jimmy.”

Jimmy shoots up at that offer – his eyes wide open. “You mean it?”

Kyle winks.

“When do I not?”

 

_To hear the love I meant to say_

 

Jimmy settles down next to Kyle’s headstone, placing a fresh bouquet of flowers where the old one used to be. They’re a mix of wildflowers, a few cultured roses from Eileen in there as well, and three dandelions that are stuck in the middle of the colorful chaos.

“Hey, Kyle,” Jimmy says, drawing his knees close to his chest. He glances up for a second. “I hope it’s going good up there.”

He pauses, shifting a little.

“Sooo, uh…you won a Tony, but that’s nothing new to you, is it,” he says uncertainly.

People walk by, and somebody stops to ask for an autograph.  


“I finally met Ivy in person,” he says, biting his lip. “Lovely woman, very talented. She’s the new lead in Eileen’s show and, uh, yeah.”

Jimmy fiddles with this shirt.

“Julia’s thing for Gatsby is really taking off too.” Jimmy laughs, looking down at his feet, “Derek also has a kid now…which is a little disconcerting, I’m going to admit - considering the fact that he’s _Derek_ , but whatever.

“I also got our apartment back. It’s nice. I like it a lot.”

He still sleeps in Kyle bed, but he doesn’t say anything about that, because what’s creepier than admitting you have a suitcase full of your dead friend’s possessions? Besides, Kyle should know by now. If he’s even paying attention.

Jimmy sniffles, wiping at his eyes.

“Nothing's really changed since I last came here,” he admits finally, laughing a little at his own comment. “Still sober, still clean, still writing, still singing, still…existing.”

The wind blows through the trees, creating the prettiest sound of rustling leaves, and chirping birds.

“Though,” Jimmy starts a little hesitantly. “I mean to say something today – something that I’ve meant to say for years and years and years, and I hope that you will understand too.”

He bites his lip.

“I…think I love you,” Jimmy laughs, a little breathless kind of realization, and then everything stops at once.

  


* * *

**“BROADWAY HERE I GO”**

**BROADWAY VETERAN JIMMY COLLINS DIES AT AGE 105**

_Jimmy Collins (left) is a face that most of the people in the world should be familiar with. Breaking out full speed into the cut-throat world of Broadway with nothing short of thirteen Tony nominations and twelve Outer Critics Circle nominations, as well as many other awards for his first musical “HIT LIST” (book by Kyle Bishop – Tony award winner for Best Book – directed by Derek Wills, starring Karen Cartwright, Ana Vargas, and Jimmy Collins) took the Broadway world by storm. Through the media whirlwind that was “Bombshell” (Producer Eileen Rand, director Tom Levitt and Derek Wills) moving from Boston to Broadway, the small musical held its first debut and captured attentions in the Fringe, ultimately leading to it’s transfer to MTW (Manhattan Theatre Workshop) and later on to Broadway._

_After a successful twelve and a half year run, one of the longest shows playing on Broadway, through many leading ladies and leading men – Jimmy Collins sang the last show to ever play in the original run of “HIT LIST”. His speech dedicated to his former friend and HIT LISTS’ book writer – Kyle Bishop, is one that is still hitting replay buttons all around the world. Thank god for that ProShot._

_If you do not know, the lights of the marquees are always dimmed to show respect for those who have made an impact on the Broadway world having passed on, and tonight will be no exception. For those attending a show, or simply passing by – the world suggests that you stop and take a look at this phenomenal event. Much like Harvey Feinstein’s night, this will be an event that you should not miss, and will be recorded professionally, as well as through cell phones and will most likely be shared later on in many social media sites. There will be a live broadcast on NBC and ABC at eleven pm AST._

_Armed with over twenty-eight Tony nominations and fifteen Tony’s under his belt and thirty-three shows that have been hit musicals on Broadway (including HIT LIST, Under the Stars, Do It, Got Everything, XAVIER & COMPANY, don’t have the words, LIGHTENING OCEAN, and Five Hundred Leagues to See), Collins is really leaving the world with something to think about. If you are wondering, they are all embarking on tours, reviving, and/or continuing it’s run nationally and on Broadway in commemoration to one of the most phenomenal songwriters to have made it to fame.  _

_And with no shortage of adoring fans and touched crowds, Jimmy Collins has certainly left this world everything to remember – whether it be through his showstopping numbers, his fantastic lyrics, or through bettering the world as a whole – he will certainly become a true Broadway veteran for centuries to come._

_Let us turn back the clock to when Karen Cartwright stumbled into Table Forty-Six where partners Jimmy Collins and Kyle Bishop had worked - ending up forgetting her phone and accidentally kick-starting three long and excellent careers – starting with a simply lyric, “Broadway here I come” as a sign that dreams really do come true._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, and others are always appreciated, though not necessary
> 
> Feel free to yell at me for my terrible prose below.


End file.
